‘Sure. Help yourself, mate. But keep the fucking noise down, yeah?’
He gave Winter a parting scowl and disappeared behind the van again. Seconds later a front door slammed shut. Winter bent to the Lexus then checked his watch. Nearly nine o’clock.
It was dark by the time Faraday made it home. He’d returned to Major Crime from Bransbury Park, waiting in his office while Suttle transferred the photos to his hard disk and printed off the best of them. His mate wanted the camera back that night and he was keen to get the job tidied up before Mandolin took over his life again tomorrow morning.
After a delay sorting out a problem with a USB lead, he slipped the prints into an envelope and handed them to Faraday. In Suttle’s view it would probably be possible to ID all the kids except one.
With Suttle clattering down the back stairs to the car park, Faraday had the Major Crime suite to himself. The big incident room at the end of the corridor was empty and everyone else had gone home. Mandolin, it was widely acknowledged, had at last settled down. On every investigation he’d ever known the squad took a while to find its rhythm. Sometimes it was a question of days before that happened, sometimes it was even longer. Given the chaos of Saturday night and all the media nonsense afterwards, Faraday knew they’d been lucky to stay in the driving seat. There’d been a bigger helping of frustration than usual, and no one was minimising the difficulties of finding Jax Bonner, but their collective nerve had held. There might even be a chance of a couple of days off at the weekend.
The thought of the weekend put a smile on his face. Gabrielle had been vague about the arrangements but he’d gathered that J-J was taking a train down from London on Saturday. If he got in before midday they could still make it over to the island for a crack at some decent birding.
He slipped Suttle’s envelope into a drawer, locked his office and took the stairs to the car park. Traffic on the way home was light. He turned the Mondeo round, ready for the morning, then let himself into the house. On special occasions Gabrielle cooked sea bass with Pernod and fennel. Faraday could smell it now.
He stepped into the kitchen, determined to put the evening behind him. Watching Gabrielle in the park had felt deeply wrong. It was almost as if she’d been another woman, a passer-by who’d caught his fancy. There was a feeling of guilt compounded by a sense of helplessness. Why hadn’t he done what Suttle suggested? Why had they never talked this thing through?
She met him at the kitchen door, tilted her face up, put her arms round his neck. She’d been in the bath. He could smell the oils she used. She was kissing him now, telling him how much better she felt, how much saner. She’d found the courage to face the kids, to listen to what they had to say, to tell them that last night didn’t matter, that one day she’d come across this racaille who’d stolen her money and give him a piece of her mind.
Racaille meant scum. Faraday smiled down at her then touched her bruised face with his fingertips.
‘Do you have a name for this racaille?’
‘Yes. His little brother was there tonight. He said he was sorry.’
‘The racaille?’
‘The little brother. And you know something else, chéri? I nearly asked you to come tonight.’ She paused, her eyes wide. ‘Would you have done that? Would you have come to the park with me?’
Faraday thought about the question.
‘There might have been a problem,’ he said at last. ‘There was something else I had to do.’
‘Something important?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He eyed the stove, wondering whether the sea bass could wait a while.
Winter got back to Gunwharf minutes ahead of Misty Gallagher. He’d stopped for a pint at the Cardigan and was contemplating a second when she’d phoned him.
‘Paul? We need to talk. I’m at La Tasca. Baz has just walked out on me. Mind if I come across?’
La Tasca was a Spanish restaurant on the waterfront across from Blake House. It did a decent line in seafood and Winter knew Misty favoured it for special occasions. He told her he’d be back in ten.
The minute he saw her face in the video entry screen, he knew she was pissed. A couple of years back she’d had an apartment of her own in the neighbouring block. Bazza had bought it off-plan and sent her the key the day the contractors left the site. She’d filled it with leather furniture and a zooful of stuffed animals and made Bazza feel very much at home whenever he deigned to drop in. Nowadays, no less obliging, she occupied an impressive waterside property on Hayling Island, another of Bazza’s canny investments in a decent sex life.
She stepped out of the lift and made her way uncertainly down the hall. Winter gave her a kiss at the open door and led her into the apartment. Hot pants and a tight-fitting designer T-shirt normally belonged on much younger bodies but at forty-three Misty Gallagher still turned heads wherever she went. She played the slut with real style. Even Bazza couldn’t do without her.
After dark she drank Bacardi. Winter kept a bottle in the fridge but hadn’t needed it for months.
By the time he returned to the living room, she was draped across the sofa. Her shoulder bag lay open where she’d dropped it on the floor. Winter counted three condoms among the litter of tissues, Marlboro Lights,and chewing gum.
‘And Bazza?’ He settled on the other end of the sofa.
‘Manic, Paul. I haven’t seen him like this since Marie kicked off at Christmas.’
Winter grinned. Marie had bumped into her husband in a lingerie shop in the middle of Pompey. He was buying a handful of expensive French bras. No way would 36C ever have fitted her own gym-honed bust.
‘What was the problem?’
‘He wouldn’t say. Not to begin with. Cheers.’ She winked at him.
‘Old times, eh?’
A year ago, after Winter had finally turned his back on CID, Bazza had celebrated with the loan of his mistress for the night - part golden hallo, part showing-off. Winter and Misty went back years but this had been the first time Winter had understood Bazza’s infatuation for the woman. A week or so later, bloodied in a face-off with one of his new employer’s Southampton rivals, Winter had been dispatched to Dubai for a spot of R & R, Misty had been there, waiting for him, another mark of Bazza’s gratitude.
Misty wanted to know about Bazza’s neighbour. Some judge or other?
‘His name’s Ault. He’s got a big house, just like Baz. He used to have a daughter too. You ever read the papers, Mist? Watch the news on telly?’
‘Never.’
It was true. Misty’s take on the world was shaped almost exclusively by copies of OK magazine. Celebrity, she always said, was more fun than car bombs in Baghdad and starving kids in Africa.
‘This bloke’s important to him? The judge?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But why, Paul? He never had any time for people like that before. ’
‘You’re right, Mist. But that’s because he’s never lived next door to them before. They’re all pals now. Him, and Aulty, and the heart surgeon who lives down the end of the road. He’ll be playing fucking golf next.’
‘He calls him Aulty?’
‘Not to his face. You see them together and you wouldn’t believe how respectful Baz can be.’
‘He’s taking the piss then. Must be.’
‘That’s what I thought, Mist, but I’m not sure. Marie loves it.
Thinks Craneswater’s turned Baz into a human being at last. They even go to fucking dinner parties. Can you believe that?’
‘I’m not surprised. She’s been trying to change him for years.
Cow.’
She nodded, fingering the glass. Winter loved her nails, a deep scarlet.
‘So tonight…’ He yawned. ‘What happened?’
Baz, she said, had phoned her last week. Around this time of year he always made a special fuss of her, something to do with when her daughter had been a baby. Trude sometimes came along on these occasions but she was in the Canaries at the moment, making he
r name as a rep, and so it had been just the pair of them at Mist’s favourite corner table in La Tasca.
‘The tapas, Paul. Those little prawny things on soft roe. To die for.’ She reached for him, extended a hand, pulled him close. She wasn’t quite as pissed as Winter had thought.
‘And Baz?’ he enquired.
‘Just talked about the judge all the time. This Aulty. He’s been abroad somewhere, is that right?’
‘The Pacific. On some yacht or other.’
‘And Baz owes him?’
‘Big time. The judge and his missus are on the plane as we speak.
Should be back tomorrow morning.’
He told her about Saturday’s party, about the bodies beside the pool.
‘Dead?’ She struggled up onto one elbow. ‘Baz never said anything about that.’
‘He wouldn’t. I think he’s ashamed of it.’
‘Baz? Never. He doesn’t do shame.’
‘That’s yesterday’s Baz, Mist. Now it’s different. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.’
She was still thinking about the bodies. She had a pool of her own, another token of Bazza’s undying affection. She spent most of the summer beside it, stretched out on a recliner, surrounded by bottles of tanning lotion and yet more celebrity magazines.
‘He’ll have to drain it and start again,’ she said. ‘Marie would freak out if he didn’t.’
‘Drain what?’
‘The pool.’
‘But the bodies weren’t in the water, Mist.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Just close is enough. She’ll have got the bleach in by now. She’ll want to scrub the whole thing down. Baz too, probably. ’
Winter grinned at her. This was a new take on Saturday’s tragedy.
‘Did you tell him that?’
‘I couldn’t. Like I said, he never went into details. It was just the judge. What he was going to say to this bloke. How Baz was going to make it up to him.’
‘And you didn’t ask? Didn’t enquire further?’
‘I couldn’t, my love. You know Baz when he gets like this. He cops a serious moody and there’s absolutely fuck all you can say. He never listens at the best of times. Tonight I might as well not have been there. You know what I mean?’
She’d loosened the belt of Winter’s trousers. Her hand slipped inside. The nails, he thought.
‘So what happened in the end?’
‘He walked out on me. I thought he’d gone to the loo. After half an hour, a situation like that, you start getting worried. He’s not that young any more, Baz. You can tell sometimes. There’s a nice young waiter at La Tasca. Enrique. I asked him to pop into the gents, have a look. No Baz. Bastard.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘I’ve no idea. He’d been talking about Westie earlier. That was another thing.’
‘Westie?’ Winter’s heart sank.
‘Tall guy? Black? Heavy?’
‘I know who Westie is, Mist.’ He closed his eyes a moment, then lay back as she eased his trousers away from his belly. ‘So why would he want to see Westie?’
‘I’m not saying he did see him. It’s just the last thing he said, that’s all.’
‘Like what? What did he say?’
‘He said there was no point hanging around. And then he said there was no point paying a fortune to someone like Westie and not getting value for money.’ She ducked her head for a moment or two. He loved the warmth of her tongue. ‘How’s that, Paulie?’
‘Beautiful, Mist.’
‘Faster?’
‘No.’
‘Slower?’
‘Yeah. You remember that huge fucking bed in Dubai? At the Burj?
I’ve still got the oils I nicked. They’re in the bathroom. You want me to get them?’
He opened one eye, waiting for an answer. Misty’s head came up. She pulled off the T-shirt then loosened her hair so it tumbled over her naked shoulders. Then she grinned at him.
‘We’ll get round to the oils later, my love. Never talk to a girl when her mouth’s full.’
Chapter seventeen
THURSDAY, 16 AUGUST 2007. 03.55
Faraday had set his mobile on silent alarm. Already half-awake, he felt the tremor through the pillow. He stole along the upstairs landing, washed and shaved, made himself a pot of tea among the wreckage from last night’s meal.
By half past four he was on the road.
The Family Liaison Officer, D/C Jessie Williams, lived in Fareham and Faraday had made arrangements to pick her up in the car park of the Marriot Hotel at the top of the city. He found her standing beside her Fiesta, eyeing a spectacular sunrise. After a year on Major Crime she’d won herself a solid reputation among the more experienced detectives. She knew how to get alongside people, to buffer them from news worse than they could possibly imagine yet still preserve a certain distance. And it was from that distance, as Faraday knew, that you so often conjured a result.
They drove north. Even at this time in the morning the traffic was beginning to thicken. By six o’clock they were on the approach road to Heathrow’s Terminal Four. Jessie had the travel details. She’d already contacted Qantas for an update on the Aults’ flight. QF319 was slightly ahead of schedule. With luck they should be coming through Customs within the next half-hour.
Faraday parked in the multi-storey. Scenes of Crime had recovered photos of Ault from the wreckage of the judge’s study. The least-damaged showed a tall figure in his mid-fifties. The shot had been taken on a marina pontoon. He was wearing a strawberry-coloured shirt and a pair of patched jeans. He had a thatch of greying hair swept back from a high forehead. Horn-rimmed glasses gave his face a certain sternness, though nothing could hide the fact that he was enjoying himself. He was carrying a canvas holdall in one hand and a life jacket in the other. He looked fit, tanned and very obviously happy. God help him, thought Faraday, pocketing the photo.
A steady stream of passengers was already emerging into the Arrivals Hall. These were overnight long-haul travellers, the walking dead, their trolleys piled high with luggage. Faraday found a space behind the rope while Jessie fetched a tray of coffees from a nearby Starbucks. By the time she got back Faraday was deep in conversation with a Qantas official. It seemed there’d been a problem with Mr Ault en route. He’d complained of chest pains and his wife was insisting on a check-up. They were still airside while staff organised an ambulance to take him to nearby Hillingdon Hospital. It might be best to meet them there.
Faraday had no option but to agree. He got directions to the hospital and finished his cappuccino in the car. The hospital was fifteen minutes away. By the time he’d found the A & E department it was nearly half past seven. Late yesterday he’d agreed a meet with Jerry Proctor at Sandown Road in case the Aults wanted to take a preliminary look at their property. The Scenes of Crime team anticipated releasing the house by mid-morning and Jerry was standing by to brief them.
Faraday punched in Proctor’s number. The phone was on divert. He explained the delay at Heathrow and asked Jerry to get in touch. Pocketing the phone, he looked up to find Jessie on her feet beside him.
‘This is Mrs Ault.’ She indicated a slim pretty woman in a rumpled cotton suit. She was younger than Faraday had anticipated and, to no one’s surprise, she looked exhausted.
‘Call me Belle.’ Her hand felt cold. ‘I’m afraid Peter may be a while yet.’
The pain, she said, had come on after they’d left Singapore, first in his chest, later in his tummy. Personally she was putting it down to stress though it made absolute sense to make sure.
‘He’s very fit, Peter. I can’t remember a day’s illness since goodness knows when. It’s just … all this …’ The gesture took in the pair of them. Then Faraday felt her hand tighten on his arm. ‘Please don’t think we’re not grateful. We are. It’s ungodly, getting up at this hour. It’s just hard to know what to expect any more. One moment you’re floating round the South Pacific, having the time of your life. The next …’
Another sentence unfinished.
Jessie suggested more coffees. There was a machine in the corner. A staff nurse approached. Somebody from the airline must have phoned because she seemed to understand the situation. She said there was another room available, more private. There was a canteen nearby as well, if they needed something to eat.
Faraday was famished. Belle Ault shook her head. Jessie departed for the canteen with an order for bacon sandwiches while Faraday and Belle followed the staff nurse. The room was furnished with families in mind. Two lines of mock-leather armchairs faced each other across a couple of feet of stained carpet tiles, while the corners of the room were piled high with toys. Faraday did his best to spare Rachel’s mother the sight of a line of stuffed panda bears.
Uncomfortable with the silence, she began to talk. The voyage, it seemed, had been the experience of a lifetime. The yacht had once belonged to Peter. It was called La Serenissima. He’d loved it to bits but it represented a great deal of money and he’d been gallant enough to sell it when they’d needed funds to buy the house in Sandown Road. The buyers had been very good pals of theirs, equally mad on sailing, and the husband - just retired - had decided to spend the best part of a year on a voyage around the world.
‘We were thrilled, of course. That was something that Peter himself had always had in mind. Then our pals threw a dinner party one night and they came up with this plan. They’d divided the voyage into a dozen or so stages. Each stage was in a little white envelope and after dinner we all drew lots to join them on the voyage. Peter’s face when she opened our envelope … Fiji to Auckland, via Vanuatu. It was a dream come true. We were so, so lucky.’
Mention of Vanuatu drew Faraday’s attention. Not so long ago he’d been in a relationship with an Australian video producer called Eadie Sykes. It hadn’t worked out between them, but Faraday had been left with a deep curiosity about Eadie’s birthplace.
‘Did you come across a place called Ambrym? Part of what we used to call the New Hebrides?’
‘We did. Beautiful spot. Enchanting. We anchored in the bay there. Peter caught a bucketful of mullet and we barbecued them that night on the beach. The stars. The heat. We were spoiled to death …’ She tipped her head back, instantly regretting the phrase, and Faraday found himself wondering how many more of these traps awaited her in the weeks to come. Readjusting after a trip like this would be difficult under any circumstances. To lose your home and your only child in the space of a single phone call was inconceivable.
No Lovelier Death Page 23
